Mr Ma and Son

by Lao She

  When Li Tzu-jung had finished his wrapping, Ma Wei brought the two invoices he’d made out. Li Tzu-jung looked at him.

  ‘Ma, old lad,’ he said, ‘what was up with you this morning? I know it wasn’t me that got you in a lather. You’ve got something else on your mind – you were just venting your spleen. Am I right? Love, most likely. I’ve seen it before. Blushing cheeks; frowning brow; a shortage of words, and a surplus of temper. Off your food and drink. All that’s left for you to do now is . . . cut your throat or hang yourself!’ Li Tzu-jung began to gurgle with laughter.

  ‘“The eyes of the lovesick lover shine bright, while the eyes of the lonely and lovelorn are overcast. Being lovesick for one who loves you, has a certain sweetness of flavour. But yearning alone and unloved is naught but bitter pain.” Which cap fits you, old Ma?

  ‘Lovelorn and yearning alone?’

  The teasing cheered Ma Wei no end. When you’re pining away with no one to confide in, there’s not much left but to cut your throat.

  ‘Miss Wedderburn?’ Li Tzu-jung guessed.

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Ma, my friend, it’s no good me trying to give you advice. I know it’s no use. If I were to fall in love with a girl some day and she didn’t take me seriously, I’d immediately cut my throat with my penknife.’ Li Tzu-jung wiped his index finger across his throat. ‘But I can tell you one thing. Every time you think of her, ask yourself, “Does she regard me, a Chinese man, as a human being?” And of course, the next step after that brings you to the highly pertinent conclusion: “If she doesn’t regard me as a human being, where can love come into it?” That’s my own unique method for the cooling of romantic fevers. Let’s call it lovesick ice-cream.

  ‘No English boy or girl can love a Chinese person, because nowadays the Chinese are the laughing-stock of the world. If somebody writing an article wants to raise a laugh, you can bet your life he’ll say something nasty about the Chinese, because it’s only about the Chinese that you can say nasty things safely, with impunity. University students haven’t got any time for the Chinese, because the Chinese are the only people who can’t help them in their pursuit of knowledge. What branch of learning do the Chinese particularly excel in? None whatsoever! And ordinary people despise the Chinese because the Chinese – well, they’ve got so many faults you could never list the lot.

  ‘Now, we could make them admire us in one go by defeating England, Germany or France. But a better method would be for our country to become a haven of peace, packed with able men. What shall we take? Why not start with politics? Let’s make China the most incorrupt and enlightened of all countries. What else? Chemistry. Let’s make Chinese chemistry the best. Unless we can do that sort of thing, we’ve got no hope of others respecting us. And while we’re pitied by the people of the world, we’re not in a position to entertain any wild thoughts about their womenfolk!

  ‘I’ve only met Miss Wedderburn once, so I can’t judge whether she’s pretty or not, or what her character’s like. All I can tell you is this: she can’t possibly love you. She’s an average young English person, and the average English person looks down on the Chinese. Why should she prove an exception to the rule and love a young lad called Ma Wei?’

  ‘You can’t be so certain she doesn’t love me,’ said Ma Wei, head bent low.

  ‘How so?’ asked Li Tzu-jung, smiling.

  ‘She came to the pictures with me, and she rescued my father.’

  ‘What difference does it make whether she goes to the cinema with you or I go to the cinema with you? I ask you! Foreign boys and girls don’t have such strict social barriers between them. You know that, no need for me to tell you. As for her helping your father when he was in trouble, no matter who it was she saw crawling around on the ground, she’d have been bound to take him back home.

  ‘When the Chinese see someone in a state, they clear off – the further the better, because our education teaches us to worry only about ourselves. When foreigners see someone in trouble, they do all they can to get them out of it. They don’t care whether it’s a white-faced person, a black-faced person or a green-faced one. Normally, they look down on their black-faced and green-faced brethren, but at the first sign of their needing a hand, they forget all about the colour of their faces. She didn’t rescue him because he was your father, but because that’s her notion of what’s moral.

  ‘We think that if we see a person lying on the ground, it’s perfectly acceptable for us to ignore them. The foreigners don’t see things like that. Their morals are social ones, communal ones. That’s one way we Chinese ought to imitate the foreign devils! The other day I read that an old woman collapsed in the street in Shanghai, and people just stood around watching the spectacle for a bit of thrill. In the end it was a foreign soldier who helped her up. No wonder they scorn us!

  ‘Where was I? Let’s get back to the subject. You needn’t feel so chuffed with yourself, imagining she loves you just because she shakes hands with you. As if she’d have any time to fall in love with you! The best thing you can do is have a scoop of my ice-cream, and stop thinking crazy thoughts.’

  Ma Wei cupped his forehead in both hands, and said nothing.

  ‘Hey, Ma, old chap, I’ve given in my resignation to your father.’

  ‘I know. You can’t leave. You can’t just stand aside and watch our shop going to rack and ruin like this.’

  ‘I can’t leave? If I go, it’ll save you a good twelve pounds a month.’

  ‘And who’ll run the business for us?’ said Ma Wei, raising his head and looking at Li Tzu-jung. ‘When that old fellow Simon asked me about the bowl, I didn’t have a word to say in response. I don’t know a thing about antiques.’

  ‘There’s nothing to it. Study a few books, old Ma, and you’ll get to know a lot about them. Do you think I ever used to know anything about antiques? Got it all from studying. No matter what subject foreigners study, they always manage to write some systematic and rational works on it. There are loads of books on Chinese porcelain and bronzes – go through a few and you’ll be all right. Just study enough to answer a few main questions, and that’ll do. Don’t worry, Ma, old lad, we’ll still be good friends once I’ve left, and I’ll be only too glad to help you in any way.’

  After a long silence, Ma Wei asked, ‘Where will you look for another job?’

  ‘Can’t say. Depends what opportunities crop up. Luckily, I’ve just won a prize – it’s fifty pounds, plenty for me to live on for a good few months. You see,’ Li Tzu-jung gave another smile, ‘Asia magazine was asking for articles on modern Chinese labour conditions, and I slogged away day and night for a month and managed to write one. Turned out mine was chosen. Fifty pounds! I tell you, old Ma, the Lord above doesn’t let a blind chicken starve to death, and that’s the truth. So I’ve got fifty pounds, which is plenty for me to get by on for a while. No job’ll come to you unless you go looking for it, but if I go job-hunting every day, something’s bound to turn up, isn’t it? Folks who are willing to have a bash at things never starve to death. The capable never go hungry. Lose the frown, Ma, old lad. Buck up, and get your act together!’

  Li Tzu-jung went over, put his hand on Ma Wei’s shoulder and gave him a few shakes.

  Ma Wei, with a wry, mournful expression on his face, gave a smile.

  XIV

  AFTER HIS argument with Li Tzu-jung, Mr Ma rushed off to a Chinese restaurant, and there ate two dishes of three immortals soup with noodles. Normally, when not in a bad mood, he’d only have one helping. But as the first bowl reached his stomach, his wrath virtually vanished. It’s a good sign if you feel like eating two lots of noodles even when you’re in a temper; the thought almost turned his rage into joy. Finishing the noodles, he ordered a pot of tea, and sipped it slowly until all the other diners had left, before at last settling his bill and strolling out.

  Once outside the restaurant, he was at a loss where to go. He couldn’t go back to the shop, anyhow. If the manager fell out with the shop assistan
t, the manager at least was able to absent himself from the shop, in the same way that a department head can refuse to go into his government offices when he’s annoyed. It’s precisely the same.

  But where should he go? Should he stroll around town? The traffic was too chaotic, and his mind was still somewhat clouded with indignation. It’d be no joke, getting knocked flat by a car. Should he go to the theatre? But who wants to go to the foreign devils’ theatres! They haven’t got any gongs or drums, and they don’t paint make-up patterns on their faces either. It’s nothing but a handful of men and women babbling a load of endless nonsense; nothing of interest. Should he go and call on the Reverend Ely? Yes, now there was an idea. The reverend had said that day that he wanted to discuss something with him, hadn’t he? It didn’t matter what it was. If Mr Ma took the trouble to go all that way to see him, it wasn’t likely the reverend would turn him away.

  He hailed a taxi to take him to Lancaster Road. As he sat in the car, his thoughts involuntarily turned to Peking. If he were in Peking, how fine it would be, his sitting in a taxi for all the neighbours to see. How exalted! But here, with cars all over the place, there wasn’t anything remarkable about the mode of travel. In fact the taxi fare could even be called a sheer waste of money.

  ‘Hello, Mr Ma.’ The Reverend Ely opened the front door and showed Mr Ma inside. ‘Feeling much better now, are you? Seen anything of Alexander since? Take a tip from me, Mr Ma, and be on your guard when you go out with him.’

  ‘How are you, Reverend Ely? How is Mrs Ely? How is Miss Ely? How is Master Ely?’

  Mr Ma got out all his solicitous enquiries in one breath before deeming it proper to sit down.

  ‘They’re not at home, so we can have a nice little chat without them.’ The Reverend Ely pushed his diminutive spectacles upwards, and his nose crinkled in several places. After sneezing day after day during his cold, it seemed his nose had got used to the exercise, and since his recovery, such wrinkles had made regular appearances.

  ‘Look here, now. There are two things I want to discuss with you. Firstly, I’d like to introduce you into the Reverend Bawley’s church, as a member of his congregation, to give you somewhere to attend your Sunday services. His church isn’t far from your place. Know Euston Road? Well, carry on in an easterly direction, straight along Euston Road, and it’s opposite St Pancras railway station, to the side. Would you like me to introduce you there, then?’

  ‘Absolutely splendid!’

  Nowadays, whenever addressing foreigners, Mr Ma tended to use expressions of an absolute nature.

  ‘Very well, that’s what we’ll do then.’ The Reverend Ely’s mouth curved in an unconvincing smile. ‘Now the second thing’s this: I plan that we two should do something with our spare time in the evenings. You see, I intend to write a book, which we can provisionally call A History of Chinese Taoism. But my Chinese isn’t entirely up to scratch, and I’ll need some assistance. If you’d agree to help me, I should be infinitely grateful to you.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that would be fine!’ said Mr Ma with alacrity.

  ‘Now, I’m not asking you to help me for nothing. I must do something for you, too.‘

  The Reverend Ely pulled out his pipe, and slowly filled it with tobacco. ‘I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking on your behalf for some time now, and I feel that while you’re abroad, you ought to take the opportunity of writing something. The best thing would be a comparison of Eastern and Western cultures. That’s a fashionable topic nowadays, and it doesn’t matter particularly whether what you write’s correct or not. As long as you say something with conviction, anything at all, you’ll be able to sell it. You write it in Chinese, and I’ll translate it into English. That way we can both be of help to each other, and once the books come out, I guarantee they’ll earn us some money. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I’ll help you all right,’ said Mr Ma, slowly, ‘but as for me writing a book? That wouldn’t be easy. Would a man nearing his fifties be up to such a strenuous undertaking?’

  ‘My good friend!’ The Reverend Ely’s voice suddenly grew much louder. ‘So you’re nearly fifty? I’m over sixty! Bernard Shaw’s over seventy, and still writing books nonstop. I ask you: how many old men in England do you see idling their time away? If everybody went into retirement at fifty, who on earth would run the world’s affairs?’

  ‘I didn’t say it was out of the question.’ Mr Ma beat a rapid retreat, but solely to appease the Reverend Ely. Actually, he was saying to himself, You foreign devils have no proper respect for the aged. That’s what makes you foreign devils!

  The English are reluctant to talk about their domestic affairs with outsiders, and the Reverend Ely had originally had no intention of telling the elder Ma his reason for wanting to write a book. But in view of Ma’s apparent hesitation, he felt obliged to say a few words on the matter.

  ‘I ought to tell you, my friend, that I simply have to do something or other. You see, Mrs Ely’s secretary of the China section of the London Missionary Society, Paul’s working in a bank and Catherine’s an executive secretary in the YWCA. They’re all earning money, so I’m the odd man out: idle, no job. It’s true I have a pension of one hundred and twenty pounds per annum, but, all the same, I’ve no wish to remain a man of leisure . . .’ He pushed his spectacles up again. Now he rather regretted having confided in the elder Ma.

  Mr Ma was astounded. So the children are earning money, yet their old man still insists on subjecting himself to needless toil and trouble! These foreign devils . . . Their psychology’s beyond me.

  ‘My only hope’s to obtain a post as professor of Chinese in some university. But I’ll have to write a book first, to make myself something of a reputation. You see, the Chinese department of the University of London’s lacking a professor at the moment, as they can’t find anybody who can write and speak Chinese. Now I’m fully proficient as far as speaking’s concerned, so all that remains is for me to prove my erudition by writing something. I may be over sixty, but I’m still good for at least another five or six years work, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right. I’d be glad to help you!’

  Mr Ma contrived to push aside the matter of his own writing of a book. ‘Just think, if you become a professor of Chinese, it will be simply splendid! You’ll be able to put in a good word or two for China.’ Mr Ma was of the belief that the professional role of a professor of Chinese was to stick up for the Chinese.

  The Reverend Ely gave a smile.

  Neither of them spoke for some time.

  ‘Look here, then, Mr Ma.’ The Reverend Ely was the first to break the silence. ‘That’s the way we’ll do things. Mutual assistance. If you won’t let me help you, I won’t ask you to help me. You know the English way – fifty-fifty, with neither party losing on the deal. I can’t ask you to do it for nothing.’

  ‘You say I ought to write about Eastern and Western culture, but, really, where should I start?’

  ‘You don’t necessarily have to write on that topic. Anything’ll do, even a novel. You see, there are very few Chinese people who write in English, and your book, regardless of its quality, will sell all the better for it.’

  ‘But I can’t write anything slapdash, and risk losing face for the Chinese.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ The Reverend Ely’s mouth hung open for a long while. He’d never for a moment expected such a statement from the elder Ma. Mr Ma himself couldn’t have explained how such words had come to him.

  English people who’ve never been to China picture the Chinese as sinister, underhand beings with disagreeable yellow faces. And English people who have been to China view the Chinese as dirty, smelly, bewildered fools. The Reverend Ely had never held Mr Ma in any high regard, and his reason for suggesting that Ma write a book was purely so that he might have Ma help him. He knew that Ma was a fool, and fools, naturally, can’t write books. But unless they came to some mutually beneficial arrangement, it would be impossible for him to reconcile the
matter with his conscience, as the English people’s notion of ‘fair play’ is a powerful one.

  Like other English people, the Reverend Ely was fond of the older people of China, because these older types never utter the word ‘nation’. He loathed the young people of China, because these youngsters, although just as foolish as the old ones, forever have the words ‘nation’ and ‘China’ on their lips. Of course this national pride is quite futile, but that doesn’t stop them from banging on about it endlessly. And for Mr Ma to come out with that sort of thing, well . . .

  ‘Mr Ma,’ said the Reverend Ely at last, after a long dumbfounded silence. ‘You think it over first, and then tell me what you think. Fortunately, we don’t have to reach any definite decision today. Anyway, how are things with Ma Wei? What’s he studying?’

  ‘He’s brushing up his English, and he’s probably going to study commerce,’ replied Mr Ma. ‘I told him to study politics, so that when he returns to China he can become a civil servant or something with rather more prospects. But the boy’s stubborn, and insists on commerce. There’s nothing I can do about it. He’s just a lad, and, having no mother, he’s missing that stable parental background.

  ‘He’s become very thin lately . . . I don’t know what’s the matter. The boy’s secretive, and I don’t really like to question him too closely. Let him have his own way. Anyway, I give him the money for whatever he wants. It’s my fault for being a father. You’re helpless, quite helpless!’

  Mr Ma spoke with great passion, his eyes fixed on the ceiling so as to prevent his tears from falling. Inwardly he was very much hoping that saying such things might encourage the Reverend Ely to act as marriage broker for him, arranging a suitable one with Widow Wedderburn, for instance. Of course, it wasn’t entirely respectable to marry a widow, but with a foreign woman such a marriage mightn’t entail the usual ill omens and calamitous fortune for the husband . . . He gave a sigh.